Waking is like rising from a murky swamp. It clings to him with greedy fingers, grasp weakening by increments that grow larger with the passing minute. As the murky darkness that has hold of his brain recedes, Sam becomes aware that he is lying in a bed, not the cold, hard ground that was his last memory of sensation, his back pressed against the Impala, his brother's arms gripping him tightly, and his eyes burning because of the fire raining from heaven.

Sam can hear gentle humming. It is not a tune he recognizes, sweet and flowing, rising and falling and swelling. It calms him down to his very soul. In his state of blissful half-consciousness, he doesn't care where the melody comes from, only that it doesn't stop.

He makes a contented noise deep in his throat, and the humming ceases abruptly. Perturbed, Sam jerks his eyes open with a groan of "No!"

Before him, sitting with legs crossed at the foot of his bed, is a beautiful woman. Her long, auburn hair is in disarray, some lying over her heart-shaped, dimpled face. Her mouth, dark and lovely, is parted slightly in surprise. Across her small nose is a spray of freckles, and her eyes, dark green rimmed in brown, are open wide, searching Sam's own face curiously.

The one imperfection that marrs her form is her left arm, which appears to have been splinted. She holds it gingerly against her body, as though she is altogether unaccustomed to pain.

"Are you awake?" she asks, cocking her head curiously, stretching out one arm, her long fingers splaying as she rests them gently on the blankets above his calf.

Sam blinks in assent, but she does not seem to understand.

"Yes," he croaks, lifting himself onto his elbows, raising his tired body from the soft comfort of the bed.

The world lurches violently, and Sam drops back onto the mattress. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the world to stop spinning around him. The woman's grip tightens briefly on his leg. He sighs.

Must be the blood loss.

And with that thought, the memories come flooding back: the exhausting, bloody, arduous hours spent trying to cure Crowley, the fight with Abbadon, the King of Hell's startling revelation of his innate human desire for love, and Dean, bursting in at the last moment to save him, as usual.

But in saving him, Dean had doomed them all. And it was all Sam's fault. He hadn't had the guts to go through with it. It would have been so simple, trading his own life to save the world. What does one life matter compared to seven billion?

But worst of all, he had let Dean down again. The sin he seemed doomed to repeat eternally until it destroyed him. He would never be good enough.

Let it go, brother, he thinks, recalling Dean's words. And for the moment, Sam does, pressing the palms of his heels to his eyes resignedly, letting out a gust of air. The world has stopped swaying when he opens his eyes.

The girl is still staring at him, in a way so intense that it reminds him of the way Cas eyes Dean. A suspicion begins to grow in a corner of his mind.

He thrusts out his hand for the woman to shake, saying, in a voice shaky from little use, "I'm Sam. Sam Winchester."

The auburn-haired woman trips lightly off the foot of his bed, circling around to Sam's right side to grasp his hand. "I know that," she says, shaking her head slightly and smiling almost impishly, "Everyone knows the Winchesters."

Is she...?

"I'm Ananchel."

Yes, that was an angel's name if he'd ever heard one. It sounded almost like 'an angel,' actually. But he wanted to confirm.

"Are you...an angel?"

Ananchel's smile dims, becoming a hard, flat line that hangs sourly in the pale canvas of her face. "Was. I was an angel. No one is an angel anymore."

Sam remembers. Ananchel's hand is still in his own, and he applies gently pressure, aiming for a soothing reassurance. Of what, he does not know.

"I'm sorry," he says, and the words feel empty and hollow. "I know how it feels to lose family."

She eyes him sadly, her thumb rubbing slow circles on the back of his hand. "They are not gone, Sam. Only changed. And missing."

Sam nods wearily, resting his head on his pillows and trying not to close his eyes. He is worried of what he will see if he allows himself to fall asleep. He trails his hand over his forehead, feeling its moisture. His hair is damp, soaked in his own sweat, and yet he feels cold, despite being swathed in a down comforter. He shivers, blinks sleepily, shakes his head. He must not slip into unconsciousness.

He feels Ananchel's slender hands probing his face, checking his temperature, his pulse, brushing his hair back from his face. And all the time she continues talking, as if he is the only confidante she has in the world. He finds that he was strangely comfortable with this woman, this fallen angel, whom he has only just met. Yet he doesn't mind.

"The most terrifying thing, Sam," Ananchel says in hushed tones as she tucks his lank hair behind his ear, "is not knowing, is not being able to verify that they're okay. When you're an angel, you can feel all others of your kind. We are—were—all God's soldiers. On some level, we were all part of the same consciousness. We were aware of each other. And now, without that, I am all by myself in my mind. It's...terrifyingly lonely." She sucks a deep breath breath through her teeth, clenched in pain. Sam doesn't know if it comes from her arm or from something deeper.

Sam reaches up and grasps her hands, which were now mechanically stroking at his hairline, obsessively pushing stray hairs off his forehead. He brings them gently down to rest on his chest, his own hands covering hers in a way that he hopes is comforting. She blinks in surprise, but then holds his gaze determinedly. They stay that way for a time, but Sam can't seem to measure how long it is exactly; it seems as though they are not part of time, as though they're separate from it. Even though Ananchel is no longer celestial, Sam feels as though there is something about her, something that seems to set her apart from any true human he has ever met.

After a few minutes—or hours, for all that he knows—Sam finally speaks. "Why are you here, Ana?" he asks, softly.

She accepts the nickname without comment, but looks puzzled as she answers, "I told you, my sibling and I have—,"

"No, no, no," Sam interrupts hastily, grinning awkwardly, "I mean here, in my room. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're here, but..." he trails off, letting a trace of the grin hang on his features.

"Oh," Ana sounds hesitant for the first time since Sam has met her, as she says, almost ashamedly, "I couldn't sleep." She says it in the manner of a small child admitting a wrongdoing.

Sam chuckles a little at her demeanor, relinquishing her hands, and scoots over. The movement makes him dizzy, and he closes his eyes for a second, squeezing the bridge of his nose. When he opens his eyes, Ana is cocking her head at him, and Sam is so forcefully reminded of her brother that he lets out a loud bark of laughter.

"What?" Ana asks confusedly, and Sam waves his hand dismissively.

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "Here," he pats the sliver of bed that his movement has left free, "lay down."

Ana doesn't hesitate; she lifts up the sheets and slides under gracefully, curling up to Sam like she is desperate for human contact. And once Sam thinks about it, he thinks that she must be. Newly human but truly ancient, Ananchel is a confusing mix of childish innocence, adult gravitas, and millennia of knowledge.

Ana places her head gently in the crook of Sam's neck, and Sam wraps his arm around her. This should feel odd, as they have only just met, but Sam feels strangely protective of this curious creature, who is both fragile and seemingly tenacious. He smiles into her hair, whispering, "Just close your eyes. Try not to think about anything. Just be."

Ana smiles a little, and he can feel it against the warm skin of his neck. And in this private, warm little corner of the world, Sam coaxes a fallen angel gently to sleep.